


exoneration

by tomorrowisforeverallours



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 15:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15910899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowisforeverallours/pseuds/tomorrowisforeverallours
Summary: Hermione becomes an advocate for prison reform after the war. To achieve her goals, she petitions for help from those unfairly sentenced to Azkaban, starting with Draco Malfoy.





	exoneration

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe this came out of my brain and onto the page in the year of our lord 2018
> 
> it just had to happen
> 
> for my uneasy alliances friends, there are multiple things in the works, some of which will be done very soon! i just had to get this onto the page before it consumed me

Being in Malfoy Manor never fails to send chills down Hermione's spine, no matter how much time has passed. It is not for lack of trying on Narcissa's part: the manor has been thoroughly sanitized, scrubbed clean of any traces of Dark magic until it is the picture of contrition. It resembles a model home more than anything else, one of those Muggle dollhouses that Hermione's friends had coveted in her youth.

It is the coldest home Hermione has ever been in.

Her sensible heels click on the fireplace bricks as she steps out, rubbing Floo remnants out of her eyes. Narcissa Malfoy née Black awaits her, the woman's characteristically stoic expression softened by the relief and gratitude in her eyes as she kisses Hermione's cheek and takes her cloak.

"Thank you for letting me -"

"No thanks necessary," Narcissa says firmly. "You brought my son back to me, Miss Granger. The least I could do was let you visit him, especially with your intentions."

Hermione flushes, no words coming to her. She's not sure she'll ever be used to Narcissa treating her kindly, but it cannot hurt to have her as an ally. She had protected Harry, and in one way this is Hermione's way of repaying her, but it is more as well.

The guilt gnaws at her.

"Mitzi will take you upstairs," says Narcissa with a snap of her fingers. There appears a small house elf, dressed in as nice of rags as Narcissa could convince them to accept after Hermione had made genuine strides with her appeals for their better treatment. She pulls a wry smile. "I'm afraid I've been smothering him so much that he'd almost demanded I leave you alone for the time being."

Hermione chuckles. "I'll try not to rile him up too much."

"On the contrary," says Narcissa, her smile falling. "Any emotion is good emotion."

Mitzi bows and squeaks for Miss Granger to follow her. Hermione does. 

The manor is large and maze-like and Hermione would have been lost ages ago were if not for Mitzi leading her. She is half-winded simply from the walking by the time they stop in front of a door and Mitzi disapparates. 

She pauses, dusts some Floo Powder from her robes. Then she takes a deep breath, knocks once, and opens the door.

She had expected Draco Malfoy's bedroom to be lavishly decorated, green and silver and expensive decor everywhere, but it resembles his prison cell more than anything else. She sees his broom mounted on the wall, and some memorabilia from Hogwarts, but it is altogether barren, unnaturally clean for a nineteen-year-old boy's room, and dark save for the gray light streaming in from the window, half-blocked by Malfoy's figure sitting at the sill.

"Well, now," says Malfoy, not even turning to look at her. "I don't think you're here to gawp, Granger. Be a dear and close the door behind you."

"Just as prickly as ever, Malfoy," says Hermione softly, doing as he suggests. Despite the intense warming charm on the room, he is wrapped in the duvet from his bed which drapes onto the floor from his shoulders like a dementor's cloak. His side profile looks dreadful - drained of all vitality, cheekbones hollow and skin gaunt, the palest she's ever seen him. Traces of the once-handsome Slytherin Prince remain - those gray eyes pierce her, even now - but Azkaban was not kind to Draco Malfoy. 

"Got to hold on to my dignity somehow, don't I, Granger?" He says, equally soft.

Hermione snorts despite herself. "You'll be a stuck-up git until the day you die, Malfoy. No stint in Azkaban will change that."

Immediately she regrets saying the name; she can see how he stiffens and curls into himself, as though the mere three syllables cause him pain.

"I -"

"Why are you here, Granger?"

"...You know why."

It is Malfoy's turn to scoff, turning back to the window. The first snowfall has just arrived and the estate's gardens are dusted with white, dotted with the occasional strutting peacock. "Not really. Mother's told me you'd led the campaign for my pardon, so I am unfortunately in your debt, but I have no clue _why_ you would do such a thing. And I certainly don't know why you came to see me. I don't want your pity."

"Nobody's pitying you, Malfoy," says Hermione, but it is half lie. The truth is that it _is_ hard to see him like this, all skin and bones and stormy haunted eyes. It is just another reminder of how much has changed. Neither of them is the child they used to be. "And it's simple. I got you out of there because you didn't deserve to be there."

"How would _you_ know what I deserve?" Malfoy exclaims, glaring at her, the most emotion he's shown so far. Eleven-year-old Hermione would have flinched, conditioned by years of bullying to fear any man who raises their voice, but post-war Hermione merely lets him rant.

"You don't know what I've done. You don't know what I'm capable of. I've _hurt_ people, Granger," he emphasizes, cheeks turning a ruddy red with exertion that appears frankly unhealthy. "I nearly sabotaged your whole bloody operation with that stunt in the Room of Requirement. I planned the death of _Albus Dumbledore_." His chest heaves with breath he cannot seem to catch, and for a moment Hermione considers summoning him a Calming Draught before he keels over. "I deserve to rot in that cell for supporting that monster."

"You don't believe that."

"Yes, I do!"

"Then would you like me to send you back?"

Check. Malfoy glares at her balefully, but he mutters no. Then again, softer, arms wrapped around himself: "Please, no."

Hermione crosses the room. She takes a risk and sits across from Malfoy on the window seat, their knees brushing before he scoots away. Her heart aches for him in a strange way that she never thought she would feel for Draco Malfoy.

"Look, Draco," she says, the name foreign on her tongue. His eyebrows raise. "We were all forced to do things we didn't want to do. Voldemort would have killed your parents, would've done horrible things to you if you didn't follow his orders. Your unwilling complicity in an atrocity doesn't mean you deserve to take responsibility for it."

"Then who does?" Malfoy spits. "If it's like you say, Granger, then Azkaban would be bloody empty. Every one of us _Death Eaters_ was fighting for our lives against that madman, except some of the truly crazy ones. You have to point fingers somewhere, and _this_ shows you where to start."

He shrugs off his blanket cape to show off the gruesome mark tattooed into his skin.

Hermione winces.  "Alright, you have a point."

That, perhaps, takes Malfoy aback more than anything. "Granger admitting I might be right about something? I literally never thought I would live to see the day."

"But," Hermione continues, stubbornly ignoring his slight, "even if that's the case, the punishment should fit the crime. For a junior follower such as yourself, one year seems fitting enough. You said yourself at your trial that you've never killed anyone. And Azkaban is a terrible method of imprisonment! Keeping all the most dangerous people in wizarding Britain in one place is mental, for one, and -- and people deserve a chance to repent! In the Muggle world they have things like parole, and community service, and proper juries of one's peers, and rehab centers where people can get help _before_ they commit crimes, and here - for all the bloody magic we've got it's either pay an exorbitant fee to the Aurors or go to trial in front of a bunch of old men who’ve never worked a day in their lives. The only reason the whole bloody place wasn't filled to the brim with half-bloods and Muggleborns all the time is because we learn to be constantly monitoring ourselves so we don't get bloody _murdered._ "

Malfoy is smirking at her. "Calm down before you have an aneurysm, Granger."

Hermione flushes, falling quiet. Her tendency to ramble has gotten the best of her yet again, but Malfoy looks more thoughtful than anything else.

"You weren't at my trial," he recalls. "Potter was, but you and Weasel were missing. In fact, I recall hearing you disappeared for a few months after the war."

Hermione swallows the lump in her throat. Does she owe him an explanation? No, but she's told no one about this and the words seem almost easier when she isn't faced with her friends' sympathetic faces.

"I went to find my parents,” she says, voice near a whisper. “When the war began to escalate – well, I cast a memory charm on them. Sent them off to Australia to build a whole new life. A life without me.”

Malfoy is deathly quiet.

“And – and so when the war ended, all I could think about was finding them and trying to get them back. And Ron came with me, of course. And we searched, and they’d moved around, but we found them, and I tried to undo the spell.”

She dries her eyes on her sleeve. “Dad was so shocked that – well, he hadn’t been in the best of health before the war, and his heart just couldn’t take it. Mum stayed in Australia and wants nothing to do with me. And Ron and I didn’t work out, so I spent some time in the Muggle world, and then I came back. And that’s what you missed on GrangerWatch, I suppose,” she laughs hollowly, the words dying on her tongue.

Malfoy watches her. There is something in his eyes that betrays his expression, something that could almost be sympathy, if it were not for the fact that this is Draco Malfoy. “I’m sorry. That fucking sucks.”

Hermione blinks and then laughs. “Are you sure you’re recovering? You’re not actually losing your mind?”

“Don’t make me doubt it,” says Malfoy, hint of a smirk twitching at his lips. “We’ve both been through hell, but at least I have one loving parent at the end of it all. Accept my condolences before I regret them, and let’s never speak of this again.”

She laughs again, and if she is a bit teary-eyed Malfoy is polite enough not to tease her about it. “Thanks, Malfoy. So we’re best friends now?”

“Don’t make me sick. So what do you want from me? I’m not about to go around passing out buttons with your newest slogan on them. What is it this time, the Society for the Release of Unjustly Imprisoned Criminals? SRUIC? I have to say, not sure if that’s better or worse than SPEW.”

“Hey!” Hermione exclaims, but she can’t help another laugh, and she’d never thought Draco Malfoy would make her laugh so much. He’s lost that apathetic look in his eye, too. “There’s no buttons… yet. But I need your influence to back me up. Even if your family was on the wrong side of things, you still have money and prestige that the Wizengamot will respect much more than a Muggleborn 'war hero.' If you talk about your experiences –”

“No.”

She frowns. “Malfoy –“

“I’m not reliving that hell for you, Granger,” he interrupts, any lift to his mood gone. “And certainly not for any audience.”

His thousand-yard-stare pierces through her. It is a look Hermione knows well; she has seen it in the eyes of Harry, of the Weasleys and the Order, of her grandfather who had once stormed the beaches of Normandy. She sees it in the mirror.

“Alright, Malfoy,” she says softly. “Nobody will force you to talk about it. But I could still use your help. You know the families we need to get in touch with, and it’s your classmates we’re trying to free. Nott’s still in there, Zabini’s an exile in Italy… and they’re still trying to investigate so many Ministry employees that were just trying to survive. The magical justice system needs a major reform, and I’d like to do it with your help."

Hermione waits with baited breath. She’s mostly confident that she could accomplish her goals on her own – she _is_ Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age.

But the aid of Draco Malfoy could be invaluable, and he deserves a chance at redemption. This could be that chance, if he takes it.

Hermione finds herself hoping he does.

Malfoy doesn’t say anything for a good while, long enough to nearly drive Hermione mental. She distracts herself for a time, not wanting to pressure him for an answer, and just when she’s about to exclaim “So will you help or not?” – she looks up and he’s staring back at her, a gleam in his eyes, a stopwatch flickering in the air.

“A solid two minutes, Granger, I’m impressed,” he quips.

She flushes and stands up in outrage. “You’re having me on, Malfoy!”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Granger, it was a joke. Not that you’ve ever made one of those,” he rolls his eyes.

Suddenly she recalls why it was she used to hate him so much. “Shut it. So are you in or not?” She demands, impatience getting the best of her.

“Hm. I suppose I can comply, despite how dreadful it will be to cooperate with you. Now get out, your anxiety is suffocating.”

Hermione makes an offended noise and stalks to the door. Malfoy gives her that snide look, but there is a color in his cheeks and a spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and she suspects this is the first time he’s had the energy to cast anything since he was released. It certainly doesn’t make her proud of herself for coaxing the life back into him.

“As is your arrogance,” she retorts. “I’ll come back in a few days to talk out a game plan. And be ready to work, will you? No more blanket capes.”

“You mean to say you _aren’t_ interested in seeing me half-naked?”

She flushes. “Heavens, no.”

“Shame. You’re missing out on a great view, Granger.”

Hermione holds her tongue before she can make an inappropriate comment about how good an Azkaban diet must be for one’s weight. “Keep telling yourself that, Malfoy. I’ll see you –”

“Yeah, yeah,” Malfoy says nonchalantly, and shuts the door in his face with a wave of his hand.

She is half-tempted to reopen it and strangle him the Muggle way. More than half, really.

But this is the start of a queer partnership that _she_ spurred on, and so Hermione exhales her frustration away and ignores the memory of ash grey eyes haunting her long after she leaves the Manor.


End file.
